Despite all progress, Science has made today,
The Indian farmers tills the field old style;
And threshes sheaves to sort the grain from hay;
Returning late with bullocks, walking miles!

The scorching Sun can’t tan his skin much more;
The pouring rain destroys the crops, he raised;
The mighty winds can’t make his eyes more sore;
By end of day, he looks tired and dazed.

The rodents, birds play havoc in his field;
The insects eat the sprouting grain and leaves;
The manure-costs affects his yearly yield;
And all he makes is thinner, smaller sheaves.

And middle-men ruin the sum he makes;
He feeds others but keeps just cow-dung cakes!